


Azkaban Light

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Azkaban, Dubious Consent, Imprisonment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The chill of Azkaban stays in Harry's bones even after he leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Azkaban Light

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by Essenity.

Azkaban was always cold, even in the summer, when rain fell from the skies to mix with the sea far below. The sea sent up turbulent winds, which cut through the stone walls like paper to the diseased air inside. The cells of Azkaban always smelled. They smelled of blood and salt—horrible when first inhaled, even more horrible when you no longer smelled it.

But that had long since passed for Harry; years spent in the prison had made him numb, until he no longer felt anything.

"What's he doing out there?" an inmate hissed, staring at him with beady eyes. Harry was sitting near the open window, staring out at the ocean, when most of the inmates were huddling under their sheets.

"Dunno," said his partner. "Been doing that for a while now."

"Why?"

"Dunno. He's not right in the head. Touched."

Harry shuddered as the wind blew against him, but otherwise did not move.

"Oi! Potter!" cried a voice. It was the warden. "You have to come with me."

Harry nodded. He stepped off the windowsill and padded towards him. "Where are you taking me?"

"Just out. You're going to be released."

All of the prisoners' heads turned towards him. _Released._ The word echoed through the room like a bell, like a cry.

Harry shivered and drew closer to the warden. "All right, then. Let's go."

They walked out of the prison cell, the warden making sure to lock the door behind him.

"Where am I going?" Harry asked.

"You're going to be put in someone's care. So you can be rehabilitated."

"Whose care?"

"You'll see."

They walked through a dark hallway, the only illumination coming from the waxy candles on the walls, smoking sullenly through the gloom.

"In here," said the warden, pushing a door. His shiny leather shoes clacked on the floor. The air inside was warm, and it smelled like peppermint. Harry was suddenly acutely aware of his bare, dirty feet, his shabby prison uniform, and he felt ashamed.

They went inside. "Potter," drawled a voice Harry hadn't heard for years.

Harry raised his eyes to look at him. Draco was there—the ugly little ferret, wearing fine robes and holding his father's cane, looking at him like he was a piece of mud on his shoe. "Malfoy."

"Is he … is he ready?" Draco said, and for the first time he looked uneasy.

"Yes," the warden said. "Just sign these papers, and you can take him."

Draco signed them with a flourish of his peacock quill. There was a spark of magic, and manacles snapped around Harry's wrists.

"All right, then. That's it." The warden poked him. "Go on. You're free."

Harry followed Draco silently. Draco leaned away. "Get away from me, Potter."

"You're supposed to take him with you—"

"I _know_ , and I'd advise you to not be so impolite," Draco snarled. He pulled on Harry's collar. "Come on. We're going."

Draco looped a chain into the manacles and tugged on it. Harry reluctantly followed, out of the prison, into the chill autumn air. The rocks were cutting his feet, but Harry knew better than to complain.

"In here." Draco directed Harry into a small rowboat, and picked up the oars himself. Harry sat inside and waited docilely.

"Where are we going?"

"Don't talk."

"Why not? Afraid of what I'm going to say?" Harry spat. It was so easy to hate him. Being around him—Draco—made him feel like he was twelve again, and back in Hogwarts, with not a care in the world.

"I said, shut _up._ " Draco's hands trembled on the oars. Being around Harry made him nervous; he hadn't felt that in a long time, not since the Dark Lord had won and Draco had accepted his rightful place by his father's and his master's side. He stared at the stormy water and wished, just for a second, that he could just push Harry overboard and watch him disappear.

But Harry had changed after being sent to Azkaban. He was quieter. More docile. And he quickly shut up as he realized how Draco felt.

The boat traveled to England in silence, Draco steaming and Harry contemplative. They landed on the docks, and Draco promptly disembarked, pulling Harry with him, and leaving the boat there unattended. Harry wondered, for a second, what would happen to it.

"I'm going to register you at the Ministry," Draco said gruffly. "We're going to Apparate. Hold onto my arm."

Harry did as Draco said. He was surprisingly touched by his consideration; the Draco he knew wouldn't have told him anything at all, and would probably have laughed as he Splinched himself. It was no less horrible than he remembered it to be—worse, perhaps, because Harry had forgotten how bad it felt. But the sensation only lasted for a few seconds, and now they were there, in the hustle and bustle of the Ministry.

Harry looked around apprehensively. He hadn't been there in years. He didn't like being around crowds anymore—they bothered him, after the solitude of Azkaban. Draco, however, seemed to take it in stride. "Come on, Harry," he snapped when he noticed Harry's distress.

Harry was glad that the registration process was short—just getting some papers stamped—and soon enough, Draco grabbed him by the arm to Apparate again. This time, it was without any notice given.

"C'mon," Draco said abruptly, while Harry gawked at the splendor of Malfoy Manor. The Malfoy patriarch was waiting for them inside the foyer.

"Father," Draco said, nodding respectfully.

"Draco," Lucius replied. He looked at Harry. "And that's the Potter boy."

"Yes," Draco said.

"Hello, Mr. Potter."

Harry looked at the floor, but did not say anything.

"Tut, tut." Lucius tapped him on the head with his cane. "It's considered rude not to respond to a greeting, Potter. I suggest being more civil in the future."

"Father," Draco snapped. "Stop it. He's mine."

Lucius inclined his head. "As you want." He gestured towards the hallway. "The rooms have been prepared. Do with your prisoner as you see fit." He looked at Harry and smirked. Harry felt like punching him.

"Believe me," Draco said. "I will."

The room was harsh. Bare. Draco pointed to a set of robes waiting for Harry on the bed. "Put on those clothes."

Harry silently began to undress. Goosebumps were starting to prickle up on the surface of his skin. He'd never had to do this before. In Azkaban they hadn't had much privacy, but people there still had common courtesy. They wouldn't stare at him like this. There were rules against that sort of thing. They were unsaid, but they were still there.

And Draco was still staring at him, those cold eyes pale. Draco knew he was making Harry feel uneasy. The thought that he could affect Harry like this rose up in his stomach. It was as unwanted and unasked for as the callus on the tip of his finger, or the crack in his bedside mirror, and yet, it still was there.

"Good," Draco said quickly, once he noticed that Harry had finished dressing. "Sit down."

Harry looked around.

"On the bed."

Harry did as Draco said. The robes weren't real clothes, ones that Harry could walk around in. They were thin blue cotton, as sheer and insubstantial as paper. Lucius had done that on purpose, Draco realized. The candlelight passed through them, casting shadows on the bedclothes. They made Harry seem younger.

Draco was hard.

"Okay," he said. "I'm leaving now. I'll see you in the morning." He paused, as if to wait for Harry's approval, before remembering that he didn't need it. And yet still, he caught himself waiting for Harry's nod of acknowledgement.

He closed the door with a thud and locked it behind him, but he didn't leave until all the candles had been blown out. He didn't quite know why he'd left in the first place. Harry couldn't make him leave. Harry couldn't make him do _anything._

He was still hard. Achingly so. But he didn't dare relieve it.

Instead, he went back to bed, tossing and turning instead of sleeping, his prick still throbbing hard inside his trousers. He wondered what Harry was thinking. He thought about Harry's hands on his cock, his mouth, hot and wet. They were forbidden thoughts, though he wasn't sure why. Nobody would know unless he told them, and even then, no one would care. And Harry could do nothing about it.

He wondered if that was okay.


End file.
